As soon as he opened the door, Jim Hilton knew. “Oh, sweet shit on the plow,” he whispered.
The sour damp smell reminded him of the bayou country of Louisiana where he’d once done a survivalist training course. Brackish water lapped at the steps ten feet below them. And the ceaseless popping of the hundreds of iridescent green frogs, splashing away, disturbed by the light.
“Jesus, it was frogs I was eating!” Carrie Princip shook her head. “Well, I’d never have thought it.”
“Not just frogs,” said Dave Bradley, showing all his oddly perfect teeth in a broad grin. “Look here, on the stairs and all the walls.”
He angled the lamp, stretching out with it so that Jim and Carrie could see what he wanted them to see.
Snails.
Hundreds of snails. With yellow-and-brown whorled shells, each one as big as a silver dollar.
Thousands of silent snails, the walls crisscrossed with the silvery sheen of their slimy trails.
“Now, admit it—they were good, weren’t they?” asked Dave Bradley.
“Well…” said Jim hesitantly.
“Folks would never even try them, once they knew. So most times we just don’t say that it’s snails and frog meat they’re tucking into.” Norma-Jean grinned broadly. “You aren’t the first to relish them cooked my special way, and I figure you won’t be the last.”
“Shut the door before they start coming up the stairs at us,” said Carrie. “I swear that I’ll have nightmares about them tonight.” She squeezed Jim’s hand. “And this is another fine mess that you’ve gotten me into.”
He kissed her on the cheek while Dave Bradley and his wife looked on.
As he broke away, Jim glanced down at his watch. “Hey, Sly’s been gone for… for long enough. I’ll just go and take a look for him.”
“Don’t forget to take your gun with you,” warned Dave. “Never know what sort of mean critters you might run into out there in the dark.”
“Sure. Like frogs and snails, for example.” He went back into the parlor and picked up the Ruger, sliding it into his holster. Jeanne was now playing “The Old Chisholm Trail,” her face flushed with the exertion.
“I’ll come with you, Jim,” offered Carrie.
“No. No need for you… Well, I guess company’s no bad thing. Got your purse gun?”
“One day someone’ll blow your balls off with a purse gun, Jim Hilton, and then you won’t think it’s so damn funny. Come on, let’s go find the boy.”
They pulled on quilted parkas, though it was twenty degrees warmer than it had been the previous night. Jim left his open so that he could get at the big revolver. Carrie carried her .22 in the right-hand pocket of her waterproof coat, taking Jim’s advice and leaving it unzipped.
They went through the kitchen, pausing by the bolted back door. Suddenly there was a soft rapping on it, repeated almost immediately, louder.
“That you, Sly?”
“Yeah, Jim. Me Sly.”
“Had a good walk and talk?” Jim stooped to slide across the bottom bolt when he realized that the teenager hadn’t answered him. “Sly?”
“What?”
“I asked if you had a good walk and talk? You spoke to Steve? To your father?”
The bottom bolt was open, and he stretched for the top one, leaving only the big triple dead bolt at the stout, steel-lined door’s heart.
Carrie reached out and touched Jim on the arm. Her voice was a soft whisper. “Something’s wrong with him. Maybe he’s had an accident of some kind.”
“Me spoke to Dad and Mom like always, Jim.”
The brass key was cold under his fingers. Jim had been about to turn it and open the door. Now he stopped and turned to look at Carrie. He raised his eyebrows, mouthing the word, “What?”
“Me spoke like always to Mom and Dad.”
The stress was unmissable. Sly was trying to give them a message of some sort. A kind of warning.
Carrie moved very close to Jim. Hardly breathing. “His mother? You think that Alison Romero’s out there and he’s trying to let us know?”
“Clever if he is. But it can’t be. Can it? I’ll keep him waiting a minute longer. Go check from an unlit upstairs window and then warn the others if it looks like some kind of an ambush or a trap.”